Note: the following is a fictional narrative based on historical information. It is interesting because it shows the problems Frederick Olmsted faced when he took on the Leland Stanford Junior University Project. Some of those problems David Starr Jordan and Leslie Elliott will face.

John Charles Olmsted stood in the doorway.  Almost an hour before, his stepfather had called him and asked him, when it was convenient, to come into his office. In other words, when the inking job, he was doing for the Leland Stanford Junior University Project, was completed.  John had just cleaned the German drafting pen he was using and put it back into its polished walnut case.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked Frederick Law Olmsted.

Frederick was engrossed with something on his desk, but he immediately turned around in his swivel chair and faced John.  Frederick was sixty-three years, bald-headed with bushy white hair, long at the sides. His grizzly beard drooped over his shirt, hiding whatever tie he might have been wearing. His clothing, even though expensive, looked as if he had been digging in the garden. His best friend had described him as looking like “an ancient philosopher.” A poorly dressed one, John had thought, when he had heard the description.

Frederick’s vigorous blue eyes flickered into a smile as he greeted his stepson.  “I need your help. Here, sit beside me.” He motioned to one of the wooden side chairs. “Would you like a brandy or something a little stronger?  I have it here in its usual place,” and he motioned toward a small cabinet, at his side, where refreshments were kept, usually for clients.

“Yes, why, not.”  Frederick looked surprised at John’s quick reply, but he took a bottle of prized brandy and poured out a generous portion into two small glasses. He gave the one glass to John, who, by that time had settled in the proffered chair and was attempting an appearance of ease.  But with his long fingers tightly wound around the small glass and his legs awkwardly akimbo, he looked oddly uncomfortable for such an elegantly attired man.

The other glass Frederick took for himself and put it on the desk behind him. He turned around and faced John. “We missed you at supper,” Frederick’s face showed genuine concern in John’s whereabouts.

“I thought I told I had an engagement with friends in Boston.” John’s voice sounded more strident than he anticipated, and he moved to soften it a bit. “Chaps I knew at Yale. You know, the gang I meet for ale and gossip.”

Frederick nodded his head as if he had forgotten. John paused. He surmised Frederick was making small talk to put him at ease. To lessen the burden, he asked, “Is it about the Stanford Project? That seems to be on your mind, lately.”

Olmsted smiled, again, this time at John’s acuity. “Yes, it is.” Frederick stretched his arms as he spoke, “I’ve just had the arduous task of writing a well-mannered letter to Ariel Lathrop, a man, as you know, I intensely dislike. These days, I find it easier to take a pick to hard ground.” With his head and eyes, Frederick motioned to the desktop behind him. “It is the letter you see on my desk, completed but not yet in its envelope.  I wanted to talk to you about its contents.”

As Frederick spoke, he looked at John, intently. Unlike others in the family, John did not come into Frederick’s office, unless asked. Frederick assumed he was perfectly happy to remain at his drafting board, performing all the difficult and detailed tasks that went with the landscape architecture business. 

John would be thirty-seven years old, Frederick thought, always well groomed with his neatly trimmed beard and thinning hair, and dressed immaculately in tailored Prince Albert suits. He had the delicate features of his deceased father, Frederick’s younger brother. His long face, nose and hands reminded Frederick of an El Greco painting.  He and John had never been close, of late, even less so. Perhaps it was because after John’s father died, Frederick had married his mother.

John was well aware of the problems Frederick had with Senator Stanford and his unpleasant brother-in-law, Ariel Lathrop.  From what he had seen and heard, John disliked both of them. “I assume the letter ends our relationship with the Senator and his boorish brother-in-law.”

Frederick’s face showed surprise that the extent of his unhappiness with the LSJrU Project was so obvious, “Yes it does.”

John was not emotional when he replied, “So, be it.  We’ve lots of other work to do. I know their changes of heart have worn you down. If you think it’s time to break it off, it is.” And, as if to celebrate the decision, he took a small sip of brandy.

Frederick was not as certain. “I wish it were that simple. You know how people perceive me as being obstinate to a fault, and I know they are right. I’m afraid that my obstinacy could be the reason I’ve decided to end the work for Senator Stanford.”

“You want my advice as to what you should do?” It was John who acted surprised.

“Yes, I realize this has seldom happened before, but I want you to hear me out---tell me what you think.” With both hands, Frederick lifted his nickel-plated reading glasses from his nose and carefully placed them by the unsealed letter.

“ I’m sure you are already familiar with most of this, from the letters I wrote you when I was in the west and my ranting in the office. But I want to make certain you have the full story of my dealings with the good Senator and the ignoble Ariel, and why I want to cut off our relationship with them, as a fisherman cuts snarled bait.”

During the seconds that followed, Frederick and John shifted in their seats, as if readying themselves for a journey. John lifted the glass to his lips and took another hearty swig. Frederick had not touched his glass.

Frederick spoke, “You know it began well enough. You were present when Codman came in and told us about his discussion with General Walker.”

John said, “As I remember it, Harry said Senator Stanford had tried to recruit Walker for the post of president of the new university, he and his wife were founding in California as a memorial for their dead son. Walker preferred to stay on as President of MIT, so he had declined the offer but agreed to act as a consultant.  Harry had thought it was a tremendous opportunity for us, and he had helped arrange for you to visit the General.”

Frederick smiled at the memory. “I didn’t know Walker, beforehand, but from the first, we got along, famously. It was as if we thought as one.  He had me get in touch with the Senator, and, after a brief exchange of letters, he and his wife asked me to plan their university. It was a project I could not decline.  Not only because of the, unheard of, ten thousand dollars I would receive for the preliminary plan, but also because of the pure immensity of the undertaking. Eight thousand acres would be involved, even larger than the Central Park project; Vaux and I designed and built. The Senator intended to create an entire town north of the university, with residential areas for students and faculty; and a vast arboretum that particularly suited my love of wilderness and disorder. It would be years and years of work for our firm.”

John injected, “All this I knew, so up to this point, there was no hint of problems.”

“None that was obvious. But now I realize I should have known that this project was doomed when, four years ago, during the summer of ‘86, after traveling thousands of miles by train to Portland, and from there by stagecoach to San Francisco with Rick and young Codman; Senator Stanford was too busy to see me. You know, of course, that instead of waiting on our heels, we took a train excursion to Los Angeles through the hellish Mohave Desert, while the Senator completed whatever was more important than his scheduled appointment with me.”

John added, “I remember you wrote to me that the desert was the most forbidding region you had ever visited, and the mercury rose well above 100 degrees.  At the time, I thought your umbrage over the delayed meeting was your thin skin showing through.

Olmsted nodded. John spoke the truth. At the time, the postponed meeting, after all those arduous miles, was a terrible blow to his ego.

John continued, “My feelings were that Senator Stanford was well-known throughout the country. A man of such prominence might have something better to do than see you.”

John could see from the grim look on Olmsted’s face that his taking the Senator’s side may have gone a bit, too far. It must have been the brandy speaking for him. He decided to change the subject to another matter, and to go slower with the drink. “Also, there was some problem, as I remember, about the exact location of the university.”

“When finally he was able to find some time to see me,” Frederick exclaimed each word as if the missed appointment, even though four years’ ago, still rankled him. “The Senator and I had driven in his carriage to a parched hill south of what he referred to as Coutts’ Farm. It overlooked the entire expanse of  Palo Alto, as Stanford’s farmland is called, and I told the Senator that I could imagine campus buildings scattered about those rolling hills in a configuration, similar to the campus I had designed at Lawrenceville.” Frederick got up from his chair and beckoned to John.  “Here, come with me, I want to show you something”

John did as he was bid. As he followed his uncle, he noticed that Frederick’s limp, from an accident that happened years ago, had worsened.  Slowly the two of them made their way to the office’s east wall, where between two large windows hung framed photographs of the firm’s most prestigious works: the United States Capitol grounds, Central Park, the work at Niagara Falls, the Vanderbilt estates, and one photo taken from atop a desolate hillside looking down on thrashed hayfields

“There is where we stood.” Frederick pointed toward the hillside photograph. John had passed by the photo several times each week but, now, he leaned down and looked at it more closely. With a second look, he could see a handsome carriage in the background with its single, top-hated occupant and his driver. Frederick must have been the photographer

“On the day I took that very photograph, we were standing alongside his carriage on that hill overlooking his farm, and when I said I wanted to use the rolling hills as the site for the university, he looked at me as if I were insane. ‘Olmsted,’ he said, with his heavy paw of a hand on my shoulder, staring at me with those dark, steely eyes of his. ‘You realize, of course, that I am not interested in building an academic village, here in the wild hills, that I consider to be the background, rather than the site of my university.’”

He removed his hand, and faced away from me and looked north down on fields of alfalfa and carrots used to feed the racehorses he bred and trained in nearby stables.”

“‘There, there on the plains,’” and Frederick pointed with his finger toward some unknown object on the west wall before him, “‘is where it will be built.’ He remained with his face turned away from me and I could only imagine from the emotion in his voice that those steely eyes were misting” Frederick continued pointing. “‘There, where my young son once played and rode his pony.’”

John said, without thinking, “It must have been a touching moment.” He moved to go back to their chairs, but Frederick restrained him by holding his elbow. 

“But wait John, there is more. When he turned back toward me, the softness had gone from his manner, and he was once, again, the rough-hewn, thrifty businessman.” Frederick’s face took on a knowing look as if he were speaking as the Senator. ” ‘And you must agree, it would be far cheaper to built on flat rather than hill ground.’ Much cheaper, he said. The man was a fraud speaking out of both sides of his mouth.  I would have been a dullard if I had not realized that he was not impressed with my thoughts of using the natural grandeur of the hillside’s slopes. He had other plans, and I could see by his look and what he said, that these plans revolved around what would have to be monumental and grand. The project we had taken on was really a monument for all three of them…the wife, the son and him.”

As the two men returned to their seats, John spoke,” I think you wrote to me ‘There is not a word half big enough for his ideas of what it is to be.’ I did wonder at the time, why you did not stand up to him. Perhaps, if you had shown him some strength of your convictions, he might have backed down.”

Frederick disagreed, “I am not so sure. The strength of his feelings for immortality would have overruled any aesthetic convictions, I had. I do understand from my own experience what the thought of death can do to a man. In any case, in my defense, I did what all those do, who thrive on the good will of those who have the money--- I bit my tongue. My greed for work lasting, perhaps, for a decade stifled any trepidation I might have had.  I didn’t want to take any chance, he might turn to others.”  Frederick paused to see how John reacted to his complete honesty.

With fortification from the brandy, John spoke what he felt, “Your letters conveyed your feelings. But I was forced to be on the Senator’s side. As the client, I thought he had the right and privilege to put his university anywhere he damn pleased since he was paying for it. If his heart told him to build on the plains, for whatever reasons, then build there. As for his grand plans, almost all of our projects are monuments of one kind or another, even though our clients might like us to think, otherwise.”

Frederick was forced to agree with John. “I see your side,” he said, “but listen to what happened next. As you know, Charles Coolidge was selected to be the architect and, like me; his selection was based on his ties to General Walker and MIT. You and I both knew and liked Charles, so it was easy for us to work out the details of the master plan with him. 

John had always liked Coolidge. “He and I see eye to eye.  Charles is an excellent architect. I think that soon he will be considered to be one of the best in the land.” John was glad, at last, to have some basis for agreement with his uncle and partner.

Frederick continued, “Since I was busy with other matters and had no desire or need to again face the inflexible Senator, in April of ’87, Coolidge took the models and plans to California, where he was met with less than a warm reception. 

We had placed single-storied buildings around a large quadrangle. A memorial church containing the tomb of Leland Stanford Jr. was positioned on the east side with a library on the other.  We softened the formality of the design by opening the quadrangle to the south providing a view of the rolling foothills, which I was so endeared with. Even though I could not use them as a building site, I would have them as an integral part of the setting.  Thus, the long sides of the quadrangle would face east and west.”

John remembered, “Harper’s Weekly’s used our drawings as the basis for illustrations that circulated throughout the country.”

“Yes, both Coolidge and I were very proud of what we had done, but Stanford would have none of it.  He wanted the long impressive sides to face north and south with the entrance facing the approach road that would come from a railroad station, not yet built. He wanted the Church to have pride of place opposite the entrance, obscuring any view of the foothills.  As if to obliterate any quiet reserve we might have harbored, he adamantly insisted on building a huge Memorial Arch that would be large enough to be seen from the beginnings of the approach road from the, to be built, station.  Such an arch would be massive and out of proportion with the rest of our design.  Coolidge was ordered to revise the drawings on the spot.  He could only agree and when he uttered some minor words of disappointment on behalf of himself and me, Stanford summarily told him, ‘A landscape architect and an architect might be disappointed, but I am going to have the buildings the way I wanted them.”

John exclaimed, “My God in Heaven, what possessed the man to say that. He might have thought it, but to say that to poor Coolidge shows him to be completely callous of feelings. I knew none of this. I always wondered why such drastic changes were made.  He treated you and Coolidge, as if you were not professionals, but, instead, hired help.”

When John said those last two words, Frederick’s eyes lit up. “My thoughts exactly, I really can’t remember why I did not discuss this with you. Perhaps, I was ashamed of my obsequiousness, but by the time I returned to California in October of ‘87, the university plans had become even more formal.  A long, straight avenue led from the proposed railroad station to the mammoth memorial arch.  The only compromise I was able to obtain from the Senator was paving the inner quadrangle and the creation of eight oval planting areas. 

John added, “About that time, I remember your reading me a note from that Scottish fellow, Mr. Douglas, you hired to create a nursery for propagating and experimenting with native-born California trees.  I am not sure of Mr. Douglas’ exact words but I remember he was fretting that they only allowed him to hire Chinese workers, who could not speak or write a word of English. I thought it was funny, at the time, that these fellows, if not rigidly supervised, might set the plants wherever they damn pleased.  I could imagine poor Douglas trying to track down where his trees were.” 

“I am certain Mr. Douglas didn’t see the humor of the situation.  The “they” of Douglas’ note was Ariel Lathrop, Stanford’s Business Manager.  I sent my note complaining to Lathrop, but it was like speaking to the wind.  I had no recourse. By then, Stanford had directed me to deal with Ariel in such matters.”

“That should have told you how he regarded your status when he started referring you to his underlings.”  John added, “I’ll never forget the many times you had rushed out of your office shouting, ’Lathrop, that bastard, has done it to me, again.’ You never fully explained what he had done, but anyone hearing you could guess.”

By now, John’s glass of brandy had been drunk. In the spirit of the moment, Frederick poured him another.

 “I could never hide my contempt for the ass. But let me tell you, just in case you have forgotten, that a year later, Lathrop informed me that Douglas’s services were no longer required. He also said that whatever work we were doing on the arboretum should cease as well, also, the work on the town that was to be created.” 

John said, “I remember, I was in the middle of a drawing, and you told me to stop where I was. I wanted to know what had happened, and you were on your way out the door to another project and didn’t have time to tell me.  Later, I was busy and forgot the matter.  Now, that you bring it up, what do you think happened? Was money running out?  What happened to cut back on his grandiose schemes?

Frederick replied, “I’d forgotten that happened, and I ‘m sorry I treated you so badly, but I did ask myself the same question. I know of nothing exactly, but there were several possibilities. One is how treacherous our times have become, economically and politically.  With that nincompoop, Harrison, as President, who knows which way our country is heading. Stanford shrewdly knows as much about the future as anyone.  Perhaps, he foresees a panic of some kind, or new union problems, or worse still, for him, a future where the railways, he and a few others control, have to account for the millions of government dollars they have squandered. Another possibility is the Senator’s health is failing.  Over these past three years, I saw him go from a man in reasonably good health to that of an old man, who was beginning to appear older than his age.  Perhaps, it is a combination of all these that caused him to have Ariel Lathrop act as if each dollar, they spent, was their last.”

John had another question, “Is only the Senator’s dealing with us affected? How has he treated others?”

Frederick answered, “I can only speak for General Walker, since he and I communicate on a weekly basis.  Walker’s suggestion for housing students in bungalow type buildings also fell prey to Stanford’s capricious desires.  Pictures of a hotel the Stanford’s liked in Switzerland were brought back to Coolidge, and he has been ordered to create a duplicate, to be used as the men’s dormitory.  Coolidge had no recourse. He went along with the changes. 

John’s face became grave, “From my own Yale days, the Senator has made a grievous error, one that might even lead to severe accidents, or, even, loss of life. I don’t think even you, familiar with Yale, in milder times; realize what college men do to each other under the guise of ‘rite of passage.’ ”

Frederick vigorously nodded his head, “General Walker would agree with you, completely. In my presence, the General shook his head in disbelief, as he told me about Stanford’s denying his recommendations. Walker said, in so many words, that there is no limit to the skullduggery a large group of young men will get into, when housed under the same roof. The words he used said, in effect, that the Senator might think he is saving money by using a hotel to house students, but by doing this he proves he has no understanding of the devilment that runs through the minds of these young men. I remember his exact words were, ‘I pity the poor man that takes on the presidency of such a muddle.’  ‘Muddle’ was the word he used.  But for me, the firing of MacMillan was the final straw.”

John had seen Mr. Macmillan when he stopped by the office on his way to California. “A truly professional engineer. It surprised me when you said his services were no longer required. I believe he is still in California.”

Frederick looked down at his scuffed boots. “Lathrop fired him.”

John could not believe his ears. “Lathrop fired him without consulting you? You’ve never given that privilege to a client. Senator Stanford must have understood that.”

Frederick said, “You are right, John.  I had a verbal agreement with the Senator that MacMillan would report to me and to me, only. Then the ill-tempered brother-in-law stepped into the picture.”

 John still had disbelief written on his face.  “There must have been a reason. MacMillan must have said or done something?”

Frederick answered, “No reason was given, and I have seen MacMillan, in person, and questioned him, and he knew of nothing except that Lathrop wasn’t happy sharing his power.”

With great sincerity, John said, “You know how I feel when anyone breaks their word, verbal or written. I am surprised you did not end the relationship, then and there.”

“Now, I realize I should have but, at the time, greed and my obstinacy overruled good judgment. I attempted to save the relationship by writing a conciliatory letter to Lathrop, and he had the temerity to reply to my letter with a statement that our role was restricted to “supplying drawings” to the university. 

John looked down at his lap and repeated the phrase. “’Supplying drawings,’ so it has come to that. I didn’t know.”

“What a slap in the face he had given me, but I still turned the other cheek and asked the Senator in another letter to understand my position as a sculptor attempting to produce a fine statue and, then, being asked by Lathrop to turn its execution over to a stonecutter.  I wrote words like ‘I was too old a man to be reasonably asked to put aside all that I have learned of my business because a man of Mr. Lathrop’s training and habits has not learned as much.’  As I should have expected, yesterday I received a dismissive note from the Senator upholding his wife’s brother. And today, this,” Frederick’s eyes swept back to his desk, “is my reply.”

John asked, “May I read the letter?”

“Certainly,” Frederick swiveled around, retrieved the letter, and gave it to John.

For a few minutes, John carefully read.  Still reading, he smiled and said, “I like it here where you mention the Vanderbilt Project with its 6,000 acres.”

“Yes, I thought it would be good for dear Ariel to read that there were others that did appreciate our talents.”

Still holding the letter in both hands, John said.  “It is a good letter that in a courteous fashion tells both Ariel and the Senator to go to Hell.” For the first time, John chuckled his satisfaction.

“That was my intent.”

From a slouched position, John sat bolt upright in his chair, “Frederick, do this for me. With all your talent for visualizing the future, tell me what the Leland Stanford Junior University will appear, say, one hundred years from now.”

Frederick ran his left hand back over his baldhead.  As he gathered his thoughts, his eyes squinted, as if looking into bright sunshine. He told John, “In my mind’s eye, I see the beautiful buildings, we designed, surrounded by mature trees and green open areas, and, particularly, impressive, is the oval we placed at the entrance.  In the background, the rolling hills remain pristine, lending the illusion that time has stopped; thus giving the university a special gift of timelessness and remoteness.” 

“Is it beautiful, Frederick?”

Frederick was still looking into his special form of sunshine. “Yes, it is.”

John stood up, as he asked, “Would you be proud that you played a large role in its creation?”

Frederick stood up, too, and replied, “Yes, I would.”

John handed the letter in his hands to Frederick. “Then destroy this letter. Compromise. Move on.  Work with Lathrop. Bow down to the Senator and his brother-in-law. Put up with all their foibles until the role you played in the project is completed and renowned throughout the land.”

Frederick stood questioning, the letter in his hands. He looked incredulous as he said, “Then I have failed to convince you?

John put both of his hands on his stepfather’s shoulders.  It was as close to familiarity as the two could come. “No, but if you send this letter, whatever you have contributed will be like dust under the rug. Your contributions will be forgotten forever. You deserve better. The firm deserves better. Destroy the letter.”

Frederick breathed deeply. The letter was in his hands. All he had to do was tear it in two and bend his pride and continue on the conciliatory path, he had already taken. He pulled away from John’s grasp and slumped into his chair.

“I’m sorry, John, I can not do that. As I retold you the story of my relationship with the Senator, some words you spoke rang true in my ears and heart, ‘He treated you like hired help. My pride will not let me. Senator Stanford is a rich, powerful man.  With the power of his money, he fully expects everyone he deals with to do exactly as he bids, including artisans, like you and me.  He can break his word; his contract, and we still carry on until the project is completed. And, I realize we do this, not only because of the money, but also because we want our share of that immortality, our clients seek.  My obstinacy would not allow me to admit this to myself. I insisted that the Senator would appreciate the work we were doing and would take our side against Lathrop.  How gullible I was, to think that Lathrop would have acted without his master’s consent.

“I am “hard as nails” and obstinate and getting to be cranky, in my old age but I have had enough.  Leland Stanford Junior University will have to go ahead on its own.  I am sure it will survive just fine without us.”

John, still standing, knew that the words Frederick had said rang true. His uncle was absolutely right. When John finally spoke, there was the relaxed air of decisiveness in his voice. “Then, let me do it for you.” He took the letter from Frederick’s hands, carefully folded it and went to the desktop behind them, placed it in the addressed envelope, drew a stick of sealing wax back and forth across the flap of the envelope, and pressed it firmly down on the desktop with his long fingertips. 

“There,” John said, “the deed is done. I never did like those two bastards.”